Prison Sex
by Vanessa S. Quest
Summary: Reid finds himself with something hard against his thigh and now is so not a good time for that!


Prison Sex

There was something to be said about the tickling swirls of something hard pressed to his thigh, far more distracting than that was the anticipation of the piercing sensation. He couldn't stand it, he just kept expecting it, a shiver ran up his back.

"I told you this was going to be exhilarating." Came the hushed, erotic whisper. Then there was a hardness pushed deeply, buried in between Reid's thigh, his back arched, letting out a guttural groan as sounds failed to fully emit.

He locked eyes with Hotch, and for a moment the shivering that traversed his back reached his ears and made them tingle as though they could hear electrons firing.

In that fraction of a second, Reid truly understood how a perversely psychopathic person in a fit of homicidal fantasy could have mixed up these impulses and sexual. While adrenalin and endorphins often would race through a person in moments of hyper-alertness, the one wielding the knife was having a much different image of the event than he was. He was also absolutely certain as to how stabbing could be the equivalence of a sexual attack for those too impotent to go rape a person instead. Not like he'd be thrilled to have either happen.

He winced as the knife pulled from his thigh, that was bad. Very bad, that just started the thirty minute timer if the arterial spray was any indicator- and it was.

For a moment, Reid allowed himself to contemplate why it always seemed to be _him_ in these situations. He knew it was a trick of the mind, he wasn't the only one, even if his score-card had a higher tally than the others. He didn't like to think it was poor judgment, but offering poor physical prowess only hurt more.

This had started in a raid, the now-known subject had even made the statement that, "It's too boring, prison. I'm going to have one last thrill before I go."

No one had realized the man had set up a transmitter to throw off his exact location, he was still within the grounds, but that deflection had been just enough slight of hand to put Reid in his current predicament.

His hunting grounds and living grounds had begun to bleed closer together the further down the spiral the unsub had gotten, leading Reid's geographic profile straight to the twisted set of stairs to his apartment, they all had suspected to find him within his lair working on his snares, they knew from his profile he would be incredibly dangerous to any civilians in his clutches, so, it had fallen onto Reid and Seaver to assist the police in evacuating the building once SWAT had identified a person in the subject's apartment.

He was having a fucking conversation with SWAT, taunting them while they set up on a bull-horn, how the hell would he realistically think the mad-man would be at a neighbor's down the hall?

The subsequent neighbor was so very dead, the first play-thing of the day.

The way the door creaked open had forced Reid to draw closer, the man really had talents for snares, before Reid could see enough of his face to even associate it with the image of the suspected killer, his arm was pulled into the chained spacing between the door and frame, his gun immediately disarmed when said door was kicked shut to a stuttering halt around his now broken arm.

Thankfully, the sound of struggling, and a slightly less than manly yelp from Reid, had earned the immediate attentions of Hotch and Morgan, unfortunately, his yelp carried for a long distance, and their attentions were had from down the hallway by 20 meters. Even Morgan's sprinting hadn't been fast enough to prevent him from being pulled inside the room, disarmed and now nursing a broken wrist.

Between being pulled through the door and past the decorative hall table, Reid's khakis were ruined with a long tear just above his knee to the mid of his thigh. He remembered kicking out, trying to slow the man from pulling him too far inside and giving him any potential barricades besides the FBI meat-shield known as Dr. Spencer Reid.

"Oh this is so much fun." There was the sound of a huff, Reid gave a cursory glance upward, the man was sniffing his hair, grinning a lecherous sneer if ever perfected. "You're so much fun. Is it because you're a fed, or because you're my last?"

His eyebrows wriggled as he emphasized that, "I'm going to have so much fun…" The knife had touched to his thigh then, and Reid had known exactly what to expect.

Morgan punctuated the thought with a hard shoulder-thrust to the door, shattering it from where it had once attached to hinges.

"Do you feel that? It's like there's electricity between us…" And true to his word, Reid could feel that same electricity, all the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up in disgust. In went the knife after drawing lazy circles and figure-eights that tickled the sensitive flesh of his thigh. His eyes flinched shut only to shoot back open.

Hotch was only 8.3 feet away, there were shouts now, as the knife slicked outward with so much more ease than it had taken to force into him.

"Drop the knife, release my agent!"

"Or what? You'll shoot me?" He giggled, he tucked his head behind Reid from the left poking it out from the right, wiggling around to complicate that straight-forward approach to ending the stand off. "I don't think so, I do think you'll leave the room if you want to discuss this like adults."

"With a child like you? That's not happening. We're not going to negotiate, you're going to drop the knife and release my agent. You have until 3 to do it the less-painful way."

"Oh really? 3? Why not 4? Then we can all have English Tea, put the kettle on Maud, they'd love to try your scones… oh, sorry, Maud's a bit busy being dead. The service here sucks." He laughed, far too amused at his own antics to realize Hotch was signaling to Reid.

Reid gave a limp nod as he took in a large breath and closed his eyes tightly.

"Three!"

"Hey, wait, what happened to one and two_oof_!" Coughing followed, Reid could hear it as he managed to slide to the floor beneath the misty vapors- the after-effect of mace-pellets. He let out a forced cough to clear his mouth as he drew his tie from beneath his FBI Kevlar vest to in front of his mouth and nose, crushing the filter down.

Pulling himself forward four arm-lengths in a one-handed military crawl, Reid was rewarded with Morgan and Hotch picking up opposing positions of his biceps and pulling him toward the doorway and more fresh air.

Hotch took Reid's hand and pressed it onto his bloody thigh. "Apply pressure, we can't let him escape."

Reid nodded, eyes now only slightly cracked open, his tie still being used as a make-shift breathing apparatus.

He can hear in that moment a massive scuffle, furniture breaking, a wall giving more than it had in it to give, and then he sees it, the start of this fiasco being hoisted out, eyes bleary with tears, nose running freely with clear snot, mouth drooling saliva, all the familiar markings of an effective macing, and Hotch and Morgan looking almost untouched.

Reid wished the burning feel in his thigh would stop, but was also well aware of the consequences of open sores and mace meeting.

Morgan continues to push the suspect into the waiting hands of two lead detectives who happily book him as Hotch is already radioing in for the ambulance that Reid swears might as well just start following him around town on any given day, you know, save them some time.

Hotch moved Reid's hand, bit back his own pleasantries at the sight of all the red and pressed a cloth onto it. "Reid, your tie…"

Reid's fingers manage to work it loose and off before handing it over. "Tourniquet?"

"It's your femoral…"

That was a resound 'yes' to the tourniquet question. Reid nodded and elevated his thigh as much as he could do without help, which is enough for Hotch to slide his other hand under.

"This is going to hurt."

"It already does, so you're good. As tight as it takes to peter out the blood-flow." Hotch gave his own curt nod back to his subordinate, who despite the title was not a medical doctor.

There is a fastidious force sheering at the fabric of Reid's tie, and he can't help but be grateful that today of all days he wore his one damned silk tie, the silk held up to the force without any give.

It felt harder to breathe, and Reid knew why, but it didn't stop him from saying what had to be said, "Tighter Hotch… it has to be tighter…"

"I… know that…" He says, his arms spread even further from his center, taking the fabric with it, and slowly, the bleeding spraying the walls trickles to only soaking the carpet, and then just seeping into already-ruined pants.

Reid lets out a breath that he has been holding, along with a string of words relating to some very caustic things to say about anyone's mother, let alone his or Hotch's, which he is sure is where he'd have landed if he let any of them start to slip out.

"How much have I lost?" Reid says, trying to snake his head back to see behind the door and failing to master said movement, instead his head flopped onto the floor almost painfully, except for the forgiving way the numbness and tingling settling in his lips and scalp allowed him to evade.

"You've been bleeding for six minutes before pressure was applied, two minutes clamping it, and seven with the tourniquet, it's official- you're not walking this off."

"Well, he did get me in the leg. A walk-off would just be tenuous."

"Right, Gideon never really got through to you about baseball… it's a term used to describe…"

"And banal, my dad forced me into t-ball until I was six."

Hotch let out a low whisper, "Well, you're a bit SOL now, I told you Jack and I are watching the pre-season games this weekend on TV."

"I'll have the best seat in the couch." Reid groans in realization, "Quick, undo the tourniquet, you can both still have the weekend to yourselves and I can eat Jell-O unhindered by shouts for beer, hot-dogs and large foam fingers."

Hotch gave his lover a look, "Not happening, and you like hot dogs, might I add."

"I can't really feel my lips right now, I hope I'm not making them bleed talking."

Hotch swallowed thickly, well aware of just what Reid was talking about, there was a balance between using up a person's energy and keeping them awake and alert until care arrived. "All I have to say is now I really want you to join us, so you have to stay awake."

"Mhm, I can do that… just, you talk, I'll listen…" Reid's eyes told a very different story than his words, that tiredness seeping into them dulled the sheen behind them, his bags looking even heavier than say five minutes ago.

"How about we discuss symptoms of shock. If I'm right, knock once, if I'm wrong, twice. Agreed?"

Reid wraps his knuckles on the ground once, "…He broke my arm…"

"And Garcia is going to make sure your cast is sparkled-up and beautifully decorated. Jack can help draw on it if you want… and it'll give you an excuse to put a third unmatched sock on in the morning."

"Ohhh, three… lucky me…" He wraps his knuckles once on the ground, head lolling.

"Alright, heart rate increases?"

Once.

"Pulse weakens?"

Once again.

"Dry mouth, wet hands?"

Once.

"Sweating?"

Once.

"For a person who needs a reminder you're doing really well…"

"Spencer, I'm just describing what you look like…"

"Oh, right… tiredness, and syncope."

"Syncowhat?"

"Faintin-ow! I bith mai tonghue."

"Let me see…" Hotch pushed down on Reid's chin, instinctually making Reid's mouth open in preparation for an open-mouth kiss, not like that was going to happen with cops and coworkers buzzing about. "You're not bleeding, sorry, sorry…"

Reid shook his head, and regretted that motion immediately. "Not your fault…"

"I see them now, they're coming up with a gurney."

"Good. Time?"

"It's been nineteen minutes with the tourniquet on."

"Hotch, my groin… is it warm and swollen? Do I have internal bleeding?"

Hotch's eyes went large, almost scandalized, but he looked at Spencer and touched him in the same intimate place he'd touched him two nights before for several minutes in careful scrutiny. Now held no less scrutiny, but a hell of a lot less lust, "It's hot and hard."

Reid smirked sleepily, "Don't act so proud about that, it is internal bleeding… I will try to make it to that baseball game… promise."

"Keep your eyes open, Reid. That's an order."

"Harsh…" Reid smiled, eyes fluttering dangerously close to closing. He winced and opened them as he was jarred onto the gurney. "Right, right, I'm awake…"

Two days later, that was the exact same thing Spencer shot out when a half-pint of mint-chocolate-chip ice cream landed on his stomach with a spoon courtesy of an over-zealous Jack delivering the treat.

"The seventh-inning stretch is over, daddy said it's a good place for an ice-cream break." His smile beamed and Spencer couldn't help but ruffle Jack's hair.

"Your daddy is so right."

Fin.


End file.
